


Show Me Your Teeth

by dametokillfor



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, M/M, Vampire!Bard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 18:34:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3144377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dametokillfor/pseuds/dametokillfor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard has a hunger only Thranduil can slake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Show Me Your Teeth

**Author's Note:**

> For all the Tumblr Barduil fans who have been clamouring for vampire Bard. 
> 
> Vampire Bard can walk in the sun, for unspecified reasons, (mostly it's easier than explaining how he manages to be in the sun in the films).
> 
> I'm from Vampire Diaries fandom, and this is the most vampirey fic I have ever written. What does that say about me?

It's been years, so many years since he has burned to feed so desperately. He has survived on scraps, whatever has come his way. He's not taken enough to be found out, not taken from anyone important, not like he is dying to now.

He can hear the blood rushing through the Elvenkings veins, can hear the beat of his heart as he talks of the halfling's actions. Bard aches to touch him, to feel the blood under his skin, to feel that heart pounding against his own. 

He doesn't know if he truly desires Thranduil, or if he just desires the taste of Elven blood. He's heard stories, a taste as rich as the finest wine, the most pure rush there is, an overwhelming ecstasy from just a drop. The rush of your first feed, a thousand times stronger. He needs to bury his fangs in that delicate throat, tear the skin, feel the warm gush of blood pour down his throat.

He clenches his fists at his side, an action Thranduil catches.

"Something troubles you, my friend." It's an accusation almost, but his voice soft, he cares, why does he care? Bard wants to tear his throat from his neck, and still he cares. 

Thranduil's eyes drift to his clenched fists.

"No." Bard lies, relaxing his hands, "I'm simply tired, my Lord." 

Thranduil looks unconvinced. 

"You aren't being truthful with me. Do I not deserve your honesty?"

Bard says nothing. The elf will catch the lie again.

"Is this to do with your desire to drink from me? The demon inside fighting with the good man you present yourself as?"

"How did you know about that?" Bard asks, suddenly defensive. What else does Thranduil know about him?

"I make a point to know the weaknesses of my allies, lest they become my enemies." Thranduil explains.

"And you still see fit to align yourself with me, with a monster."

"You have given me no reason to distrust you, Bard, and it is always better to be in league with a monster, than fighting against it." Thranduil offers, stepping closer to Bard, "Though I do not believe you to be a monster."

"I feast…" Bard hears how loud his voice has become, softens it, "I feast off the blood of others, how am I not a monster?"

"You do what you must to survive, as any animal would. You have not killed, have you?" Thranduil asks.

Bard shakes his head, "I was trained well."

"Then, my friend," He lifts his hand to Bard's cheek. It's cool, smooth, soft. He looks deep into Bard's eyes, into his very soul, it seems. "You are a victim of circumstance, you are most certainly no monster."

He pulls his hand back from Bard's face, brushes his own long silver hair behind his shoulder, tilts his head to show his smooth pale neck. Bard can feel his own heart speed up, can see the flutter of a pulse in Thranduil's neck. He aches. How he aches.

"I cannot have you distracted in battle." Thranduil speaks as if he is sure of the outcome, sure that Thorin will refuse the Arkenstone.

"Drink." 

Bard stares hungrily at the prize before him, being offered so freely. 

"I can't."

If Thranduil did something so common as rolling his eyes, he would have done so in that moment.

Instead he rights his head, looks Bard in the eye and reaches for him. He threads his fingers through the greasy strands of Bard's dark hair, pulls him gently forward. He presses a soft kiss to Bard's mouth, one Bard wants to chase, wants to fall into, but Thranduil won't let him. He guides Bard's head to his neck, "Drink, dragon slayer."

Thranduil smells like nature, like magic and beauty, and a world that's beyond Bard's reach. He kisses softly along the neck, presses his tongue against the pulse. He wants to savour this, savour the beautiful creature who gives himself so freely. 

He can feel his fangs extending, his animalistic nature fighting to take over. He drags his teeth over Thranduil's pulse, could swear he hears the elf plead with him to bite. Bard lifts his hand to hold Thranduil's neck, wraps the other around his body to hold him to him, and bites.

A low groan comes from Thranduil, and his hand tightens in Bard's hair. His other hand grips the bargeman's shoulder as he tries to steady himself. 

The blood is like nothing Bard has ever known. It's thick, honey sweet, and sets every nerve ending in him aflame. He feels new, alive for the first time in years. He tears himself from Thranduil's throat, and everything around him is brighter, more colourful, sharper. He can feel everywhere Thranduil's body touches him, the sensation of Thranduil's fingers in his hair, at his shoulder, it's almost too much. 

His senses are keener, everything around him is so _present_. His lips are bloodied, his fangs still bared as he looks to Thranduil, who looks truly _beautiful_. 

His skin glows, a soft white halo around him. Bard has never seen it before, how has he never seen it before? His eyes are half closed, their beautiful silver out of sight. His often cruel mouth is turned up in a dazed smile. He's so pale, so clean, Bard wants to paint him with his own blood. He returns his mouth to Thranduil's neck, resists his desire to drink longer, drink deeper, they need their full strength tomorrow. He laps at the wound, presses bloody kisses along Thranduil's throat, across his jaw. 

" _Bard…_ " His voice is different heard through the blood rush, soft, pleading, a thousand different things Bard can't name. He ruts against Bard, a hardness pressing against Bard's own. It's almost too much, even through their many layers, but Bard can't help rutting back against him. 

He pushes Thranduil against the table in the small tent, presses his behind hard up against it. 

"My king." Bard whispers, across Thranduil's plush mouth. There's an edge to his own voice he doesn't recognise, the devil inside let out to play.

He kisses the elf, fiercely. Thranduil's tongue is licking at his mouth, tasting his own blood on Bard's lips, as they rut together.

Bard wants to take this further, wants Thranduil over his ornate throne, screaming him name. He wants to draw this out, taste the blood from every part of the elf, see how different it tastes. He wants that pale body littered with bloody impressions of his fangs, wants them to scar, wants Thranduil to feel and remember each one. He wants Thranduil writhing and desperate, begging him to take him.

Not tonight, they can't tonight. They may be riding into war tomorrow, they need to be sharp, and Bard doesn't trust this side of himself to leave Thranduil in any shape to command his army.

But by the Valar, does Bard _want_. 

Bard breaks the messy kiss as he feels his release creeping up on him. His lips find the wound across Thranduil's neck once more, and his fangs once more attach to the elves throat, taking one final hit of the rich blood. He sucks hard as he hears Thranduil cry out in ecstasy, drinking from him as the release hits. His own isn't far behind, and as the blood courses through him once more, he feels the release take over every part of his body, a white hot pleasure.

His hands grip tightly to the elf, for fear he will fall, and he lets a dry sob out into his shoulder. Thranduil is clinging just as tightly, as he lets his breathing return to a steady pace, as he recovers his regal composure. 

Bard isn't sure how long they hold one another, in as much as they are, before Thranduil gently pushes him off him. Bard leans back against the table, still uncertain of his legs ability to hold him up unaided and watches as Thranduil wipes the remains of the blood from his neck. 

"I trust you will be less preoccupied now you've slaked your thirst." Thranduil says, a small smirk crossing his lips.

"Yes, Lord Thranduil." Bard says, pushing himself from the table, "Though I do not know how long I will be satiated."

"Then when you survive the coming storm, you must come to me again. I will not have my friend die of thirst."

Bard doesn't hide his fangs as he grins back at Thranduil, "No, my Lord. I don't believe you would."

**Author's Note:**

> Come follow me on [Tumblr](http://damnstevens.tumblr.com).


End file.
